Authors: Katie Lane
Tags: #Fiction / Romance - General, #Contemporary, #Fiction, #Romance, #Fiction / Romance - Western, #Western, #Erotica, #Fiction / Romance - Contemporary
Trouble in Texas (36 page)
He sat up and rubbed his shoulder. It hurt like a sonofabitch, but it was nothing
compared to his wounded pride. Not that he had anything to be ashamed of. The woman
had caught him off guard is all. Or not a woman as much as some kind of freakish mutant
that was a cross between Gwyneth Paltrow and Jean-Claude Van Damme.
It took awhile to locate his Stetson. He slapped it against his leg and placed it
back on his head. He walked down the trail with every intention of hailing a cab and
heading straight to the hotel and Peggy Sue. As far as he was concerned, his detective
days were over. But when he reached the paved path, he couldn’t help glancing in both
directions.
He didn’t see the waitress, but a group of kids raced by, four boys in baggy shorts
and flip-flops. One passed off a handful of firecrackers to the kid who ran next to
him. Beau grinned. Having grown up with four brothers, he knew how much fun firecrackers
could be. And how much trouble they could get you into.
Beau’s brow knotted. Speaking of trouble, what kind of trouble was the waitress involved
in? Who was this Alejandro? And why would he send someone to intimidate a woman? Her
aggressive behavior was more than a little annoying, but that didn’t give a man the
right to bully her. And maybe that was why she’d been so hostile. She was scared.
The thought had Beau turning in the same direction the waitress had been headed. As
he walked, he tried to remember her name.
Joyce? Jeanette? No, it was two j names. Jilly June? Jeannie Joy?
Before he could think of her name, he found her. She
stood by one of the horse-drawn carriages that were parked next to the curb, talking
with a driver who wore one of those ridiculous top hats. Or not talking as much as
flirting. She was laying it on thick, giggling and touching the man’s arm.
Maybe Marty was right. Maybe the woman did a little streetwalking on the side to supplement
her waitressing income. It made sense considering the disguise and revealing clothing—and
who she was related to.
Beau probably should’ve left her to her business. It didn’t look like the woman was
in any kind of imminent danger. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to leave until he
was sure. He walked around the back of the line of carriages and slipped up on the
other side. As he drew closer, he could hear the waitress talking.
“… hope you don’t mind if I get a picture of you to show all my friends back home,”
she said in a voice with no twang whatsoever, “but you’re just so cute. And I bet
you have to be strong to handle a horse that big.”
Beau peeked around the side of the carriage at the man’s skinny arms and figured the
woman could whip the driver’s ass with one hand tied behind her back.
“Well, draft horses are pretty hard to handle.” The driver’s voice beamed with pride.
“And this one is as stubborn as they come. If he doesn’t watch himself, he won’t be
pulling a carriage for much longer.”
“Really?” She held the camera higher. If she was taking pictures, she was doing it
through video. The red record light was on. “What happens to stubborn horses when
they can no longer pull a carriage?”
“They usually find themselves—” The driver stopped and pointed a finger at the camera.
“Hey, don’t I know
you? You’re the blonde that was here last week asking questions and taking pictures.”
He stepped closer, his voice angry. “You almost lost me my job when my boss saw that
video on YouTube.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The woman started to back away, but the
driver grabbed her arm and pulled off her wig. The blond ponytail spilled out.
“You don’t, huh?” He dropped the wig and made a grab for the phone. “Hand over the
phone, blondie.”
Beau had seen about as much manhandling as he could take. Opening the door of the
carriage, he climbed in with the intent of climbing out the other side and helping
to even the odds. But before he could do more than open the opposite door, Blondie
proved him right. The driver was no match for the skinny girl. She threw an elbow-shot
into the man’s stomach that had Beau sucking in his breath. The driver released her,
but before she could make a run for it, a swarm of other carriage drivers came running.
With all exits blocked, most people would’ve given up. Blondie wasn’t even fazed.
She vaulted up into the driver’s seat of the carriage, took the reins, and shouted
a deep-throated “hah!”
Beau braced to be thrown on his ass.
Instead, nothing happened.
“Hah!” Blondie continued to slap the reins. But the only movement it generated from
the horse was a flick of its tail.
Her shoulders drooped, and Beau figured she was about to accept defeat when the four
boys in baggy shorts raced past. The scent of burning fuses warned Beau, but not quick
enough. The staccato pops of firecrackers went off right next to the horse’s front
hooves. The draft horse
reared, and Beau was thrown back against the seat. By the time he sat up, the horse
was at a full run. Carefully, Beau made his way to the driver’s seat. Blondie wasn’t
quite as sassy anymore. She had lost the reins and hung on to the side rail for dear
life.
Without any guidance, the horse chose his own path. Fortunately for the pedestrians,
it was a less populated route. Unfortunately for Beau and Blondie, it wasn’t really
a route.
Shrubs and low-hanging branches whacked them in the face and scratched their arms
as the horse charged down a narrow trail. Figuring that the back was safer than the
front, Beau lifted the woman off the seat and pulled her down to the cushioned red
leather. It didn’t surprise him that she wasn’t exactly happy about being protected.
She fought worse than a lassoed steer. Still, after being bested earlier, Beau wasn’t
about to let her get the upper hand again. And since he didn’t want to hurt her, it
turned into something of a wrestling match.
The woman knew her moves. She tried headlocks, cradles, and half nelsons. But Beau
had wrestled in high school, and after only a few moments, he ended up on top with
her legs pinned beneath him and her arms held over her head.
The fight fizzled out of her at the same time as the carriage came to a stop.
Beau’s hat had come off, and his face was inches from hers. So close, he could see
the freckles that sprinkled the bridge of her nose. So close, he could see the starburst
of deep blue in her irises. Her hair had come out of the ponytail and framed her face
in long, wheat-colored waves. He had always preferred dark-haired girls, but the cloud
of
gold looked so soft that he couldn’t help leaning down to rub his cheek against the
silky strands. A scent drifted up. A scent he had no trouble distinguishing.
Cherry pie.
Homemade cherry pie piping hot from the oven.
Suddenly, Beau was hungry.
And not for food.
Like a lightning bolt straight from heaven, desire sizzled through him and settled
in a hard knot beneath the fly of his jeans. The unexpected sensation had him pulling
back in surprise, and the spitfire didn’t waste any time taking advantage of the opportunity.
She gave him a hard shove and rolled out from beneath him. Still stunned, he could
only watch as she grabbed her bag and jumped down from the carriage.
The slamming door brought Beau out of his daze, and his gaze moved down to the hardened
swell beneath his zipper. A smile spread across his face. Not the smile he gave to
most folks, but a real smile that came directly from the relief that flooded his body.
Up ahead, he could see the woman hobbling down the path in only one high heel, her
golden hair glistening in the moonlight. After an entire night’s contemplation, a
name popped into his head.
Jenna Jay
.
Where authors give you the inside scoop!
Dear Reader,
Have you ever pulled up to a stoplight and looked over to see the person in the car
next to you singing like they’re auditioning for
American Idol
? They’re boppin’ their head and thumpin’ the steering wheel like some crazy loon.
Well, I’m one of those crazy loons. I love to sing. I’m not any good at it, but that
doesn’t stop me. I sing in the shower. I sing while cooking dinner and cleaning house.
And I sing along with the car radio at the top of my lungs. Singing calms my nerves,
boosts my energy, and inspires me, which is exactly how my new Deep in the Heart of
Texas novel came about.
One morning, I woke up with the theme song to the musical
The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas
rolling around in my head. You know the one I’m talking about: “It’s just a little
bitty pissant country place…” The song stayed with me for the rest of the day, along
with the image of a bunch of fun-loving women singing and dancing about “nothin’ dirty
going on.” A hundred verses later, about the time my husband was ready to pull out
the duct tape, I had an exciting idea for my new novel.
My editor wasn’t quite as excited.
“A what?” she asked, and she stared at me exactly like the people who catch me singing
at a stoplight.
She relaxed when I explained that it wasn’t a functioning house of ill repute. The
last rooster flew the coop years ago. Now Miss Hattie’s Henhouse is nothing more than
a dilapidated old mansion with three old women living in it. Three old women who have
big plans to bring Miss Hattie’s back to its former glory. The only thing that stands
in their way is a virginal librarian who holds the deed to the house and a smokin’
hot cowboy who is bent on revenge for his great-grandfather’s murder.
Yes, there will be singing, dancing, and just a wee bit of “dirty going on.” And of
course, all the folks of Bramble, Texas, will be back to make sure their librarian
gets a happy ending.
I hope you’ll join me there!
Best wishes,
Dear Reader,
What happens when a self-reliant Highland lass possessing extraordinary “gifts” meets
a huge, shaggy warrior wounded in body and spirit, to whom she is strongly attracted,
until she learns that he is immune to her gifts and that her father believes the man
is the perfect husband for her?
What if the warrior is a prisoner of her father’s worst enemy, who escaped after learning
of a dire threat to the young King of Scots, recently returned from years of English
captivity and struggling to take command of his unruly realm?
Lady Andrena MacFarlan, heroine of THE LAIRD’S CHOICE, the first book in my Lairds
of the Loch trilogy, is just such a lass; and escaped Highland-galley slave and warrior
Magnus “Mag” Galbraith is such a man. He is also dutiful and believes that his first
duty is to the King.
I decided to set the trilogy in the Highlands west of Loch Lomond and soon realized
that I wanted a mythological theme and three heroines with mysterious gifts, none
of which was Second Sight. We authors have exploited the Sight for years. In doing
so, many of us have endowed our characters with gifts far beyond the original meaning,
which to Highlanders was the rare ability of a person to “see” an event while it was
happening (usually the death of a loved one in distant battle).
It occurred to me, however, that many of us today possess mysterious “gifts.” We can
set a time in our heads to waken, and we wake right on time. Others enjoy flawless
memories or hearing so acute that they hear sounds above and/or below normal ranges—bats’
cries, for example. How about those who, without reason, dream of dangers to loved
ones, then learn that such things have happened? Or those who sense in the midst of
an event that they have dreamed the whole thing before and know what will happen?
Why do some people seem to communicate easily with animals when others cannot? Many
can time baking without a timer, but what about those truly spooky types who walk
to the oven door just
before
the timer goes—every
time—as if the thing had whispered that it was about to go off?
Warriors develop extraordinary abilities. Their hearing becomes more acute; their
sense of smell grows stronger. Prisoners of war find that all their senses increase.
Their peripheral vision even widens.
In days of old, certain phenomena that we do not understand today might well have
been more common and more closely heeded.
Lady Andrena reads (most) people with uncanny ease and communicates with the birds
and beasts of her family’s remaining estate. That estate itself holds secrets and
seems to protect her family.
Her younger sisters have their own gifts.
And as for Mag Galbraith… Well, let’s just say he has “gifts” of his own that make
the sparks fly.
I hope you’ll enjoy THE LAIRD’S CHOICE. Meantime,
suas Alba!
